


Dragon Age: Opuses

by ushauz



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2018-12-07 21:39:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11632428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ushauz/pseuds/ushauz
Summary: For all those pieces that are too short to justify being separate fanfics.





	1. Business Trips

Technically, Varric didn’t lie. Fenris did ultimately decide to go and hunt slavers. Merrill wanted to help the alienage elves, Isabela sailed away on her ship, and Anders and his spirit side-passenger stayed with the escaped mages at first but ultimately opted to help from the distance.  
  
Now if Fenris decided to focus on hunting slavers by targeting slaver shipping vessels, well, that’s not Varric’s fault. Plenty of slaver shipping vessels these days, trying to take advantage of the confusion.  
  
And should Anders be helping the mages by focusing more on smuggling mages to safer areas set up in advance, well a ship’s a good way to do that. Hard to track and plenty of room. Some sorts of mages are very useful aboard ships, and thus at times captains sailing a bit outside the law are willing to take the risk. There’s always use for a good healer, after all, and ones through official Chantry channels are ludicrously expensive and also come with unwanted supervision. Not exactly what you want should you just so happen to be sailing with less than legal vessels.  
  
Merrill did decide to stay and help the alienage elves, but sometimes the best help is proactive, nipping problems right in the bud. Sometimes this involves taking care of all kind of dangerous problems, and sometimes it’s about securing good trade routes, and sometimes it’s about rescuing elves, and sometimes it’s about acting as a special messenger to other alienages. She’d always returned home, coincidentally when a certain ship docked for a while since no ship sails forever; there’s goods to unload, supplies to load back on, and trade to be done.  
  
And should Isabela be mainly targeting slaving vessels with a good healthy dose of smuggling on the side, well, loot’s loot, and if you kill them, you get to keep their stuff. Might be hard to disable a ship from afar, but magic’s got all kinds of uses, and a well-placed frost spell makes it very hard for rudders to work.  
  
It worked for them. It got lonely, but they always returned home with the worst disguises and even more ridiculous stories. One of them might have occasionally stayed: Merrill for some special elvhen holiday or alienage project, Fenris for a particular lead, Isabela and her crew to loudly frequent the Hanged Man, Anders to some secret rebellion thing Varric doesn’t ask about because the less he knew the better, and honestly he never even really saw ‘Anders’ in the first place so he couldn’t tell the Seeker where he was.  
  
Varric found that he was alright with it. He could keep the place in check and secret rooms available, have good food and a safe place for them when they returned.  
  
And if sometimes he left on a business trip of his own, well, the Seeker never asked, now did she?


	2. Sleepy Mornings

The body wakes, last remnants of the Fade slipping from his grasp. It never feels long enough, no matter how muted it is from a mortal’s mind.  
  
Justice drifts for a moment before realizing that Anders is not moving. Justice does not panic, but Justice does immediately check on Anders.  
  
There is no distress, however, just tiredness and vague disgruntlement. Justice still carefully checks further, analyzing each feeling before determining it is not the strange inertia that sets in at random times and lingers for weeks, the inertia Justice will still sometimes mistake for a vile demon of Sloth preying on them both before Justice remembers his host’s odd moods.  
  
This, however, is just normal tiredness.  
  
Anders should then get up. Anders catches this reflected thought and in response curls up deeper into their head with more disgruntlement and ‘pretends’ that he isn’t awake even though it is quite obvious that they are. There is no point in attempt to deceive him like this as not only is he a spirit of Justice, he coexists inside Anders’ mind. He can tell that Anders is very much awake, and they have a busy day ahead of themselves if they want to get everything done in time for an outing with Hawke.  
  
Anders imagines pulling a blanket over their head.  
  
Justice really shouldn’t encourage this. Anders is the best as the lead, to control their physical movements. It is his body; Justice is merely a guest. And they have also discovered, Justice apparently moves the body in manners disturbing to most mortals. Therefore since Justice has no desire to frighten anyone, and Anders is _quite obviously_ not asleep, then Anders should rise and start his daily tasks as by the light shining through the cracks in the walls, they have already slept in.  
  
Anders gives the mental suggestion of fake snoring.  
  
Justice sighs and then pushes the body upright. It would do no harm to at least start basic physical care and clinic prep-work. Anders is not necessarily needed for those tasks, and it should give him at least a half-hour of extra rest.  
  
Anders curls deeper into their shared consciousness, happy and content and safe, a warm radiant feeling in the heart of Justice’s very being, and dozes.


	3. Magic

Dwarfs don’t touch the Fade. Dwarfs don’t have magic. They don’t cast spells or dream or hear spirits.  
  
Enolf Brosca had at one point never minded. Why would he when such talk was for crazy surfacers, chasing dreams that things would be different elsewhere. They never were, and Brosca did not have his cynicism disappointed in the state of the surface world, with the same problems, the same nobles spitting upon their ‘lessers’. He watched his companions twitch, eyes flickering under closed lids, lips mouthing words. Brosca would just shrug and ignore his own sleep. The dreams he had were nightmarish, burrowing into his friends and eating them alive, tearing apart his own flesh to hear that song. Disorienting the first time it happened, but there had been just enough dwarven Wardens stationed at Orzammar while he eavesdropped from a distance for him to know that that was a side effect.  
  
Hadn’t known why at the time, and frankly, the archdemon could go kindly fuck itself.  
  
He hadn’t seen what the fuss was about. Not until he woke up, confused, because he had just been talking to Zevran moments ago, sly looks turning into late night conversations by an underground river, stones glowing around them.  
  
Honestly he preferred the nightmares. They weren’t confusing. He had preferred them. Preferred to keep reality separate, preferred to focus on the world in front of him, what his own hands could hold and the actual conversations spoken. While after the first few times it was easy to tell dreams apart from reality, he had wanted nothing more to do with them. He had.  
  
At a tower ran by an organization that didn’t entirely seem to be on the up-and-up and that looked about as honest as deshyr’s promise, a demon had sent his mind into the Fade.  
  
Brosca had no idea if the place he visited at night now was the Fade, dreams though they may be, but deep in his soul he _knew_ this place, and the weird logic to dreams he had found, the shifting scenery, the warped sense of time, this was it.  
  
He divined the secrets, touch this pedestal to enter another area. This place was blocked off and sent back to the beginning. Rules of a sort, pieces of a game. Here, said a spirit. You need to be small, and I shall show you. And Brosca scampered across the floor, senses bright, unseen, because mice were unseen and the logic was sound. He met wrath and learned fire, _became_ fire, walked into flames and felt them heal because his flesh was flame, and with every breath he exhaled embers.  
  
He was a golem unstoppable, mighty and unrelenting, and he understood Shale. How weak was flesh, so easily bruised and cut and charred. Why would anyone pick being made of meat when they could be made of stone? He flung boulders, shrugged off arrows, towered for once above others.  
  
But the worst?  
  
A spirit that should have been agonizing slow. Arcane horror was the term that came to his mind, a knowledge that he had never learned but just sat there in his head. And it wasn’t because he was flame and thus flame he could give, it wasn’t because he was small and thus couldn’t be seen, and it wasn’t because he was stone and therefore was immune to harm.  
  
It was that arcane horrors had all of that and more. They had the magic to do these things, magic beyond shifting and the magic to shift. He had been a golem and a mouse and fire, but those simply were, but within this form lay the capacity to do so, to actually shift even beyond the reaches of the Fade. Within this form, he knew how to do these things, the finer working of these spells, as instinctively as breathing.  
  
So magic he had, spells he knew because that was what he was. It came so naturally to his withered fingers, and he did not care how slowly he floated across the Fade. It sang so beautifully, more than any Blight song because it was _his_ , his and not needing to be found as it was in him and he was magic and here he sang. And against Sloth with all of its own forms, he composed ice and shrank space and spun flesh from mana and felt the forms beating within.  
  
And now Brosca sits, mages recruited, wounds healed, cleaning his daggers in a futile attempt to not think about how that was it. No dreams. No magic. No shifting into whatever form he needed.  
  
Morrigan flits back into the camp, shedding feathers for flesh, and Brosca envies for a split second.  
  
But dwarfs don’t dream. Dwarfs don’t use magic. Dwarfs don’t visit the Fade, and he’s two for three. They’ve laughed at Dagna for less, but he’s two for three, and more than anything in the world, Brosca wants to shed his form again, wants to become might and make the world around him sing.  
  
There are genlocks with magic, there are dwarfs who dream, and the lingering whispers of spells flicker at his fingertips. One day. One day he’ll figure it out. One day he will show them all wrong, and he will shed his form again, and he will become flame.  
  
One day.


	4. Audacity

The demon was very nice about it. It could be a trick. It could always be a trick. Spirits were dangerous things by their very nature, but it wasn’t their fault. Of course one had to be careful, but one had to be careful when sharpening blades or the like as to not cut themselves wide open.

Not that had ever happened to Merrill.

...Maybe a few times.

“You wish to know blood magic?” Audacity asked with the slightest undertones of humor.

“Yes,” Merrill said. “I don’t have enough power otherwise to fix it, and lyrium is so expensive, and I would have to go to shemlen cities, and they aren’t friendly.”

Babbling. To a spirit. Get to the point, Merrill.

“Right, yes. I need this power to fix something very dear to me.”

“What is it?” Audacity asked.

“An eluvian. I am certain it’s of elvhen in origin and that I can repair it if I have enough time and power on my hands.”

Literally on her hands after, or maybe on her forearms? She needed to be careful to not permanently hurt herself.

“I would like something in return for this. It is only fair after all,” Audacity said.

“To be free, you mean?” Merrill asked.

“ _Yes_ ,” Audacity breathed, the word fluttering about in the room.

It seemed fair enough Merrill supposed. Audacity had been trapped in there for an awful long time.

Audacity was a Prideful name, and Pride could work her best traits against her.

There was a slight paused before it continued. “An agreement then, if you will? I aid you, answer your questions to the best of my ability. But in the end, when you fix your eluvian, then you must free me.”

When Merrill fixed the eluvian. It was a very strong incentive on Audacity’s part to help her.

It could all very well be a trick. If Keeper Marethari were here she would scold her so hard, box her head maybe. Merrill was too naive, she said, had to learn to stop being so trusting in things. But then Keeper Marethari refused to listen to her, ignored all the elvhen designs on the eluvian. Merrill just knew it belonged to the People.

“That seems very fair indeed,” Merrill said. “I agree.”

“Thank you,” Audacity said which seemed a very odd thing to say when Merrill was the one striking the deal. “Would you like to begin now then?”

Merrill nodded.

Memories and information streamed into her mind carrying the finer details, safety, how it was done, and how it all worked. Merrill blinked. “Oh,” she said simply and felt quite foolish. Of course that’s how it worked. It was so simple, and she had struck a deal for it.

“Fix your eluvian,” Audacity said, and then the presence faded from the cave.

Well. Merrill supposed she had a lot of work to do.


	5. Pauldrons to Cauldrons

Templars came sniffing around again. They do that. Ain’t a subtle operation going on, after all. Hard to be and still be accessible.

Ain’t Stefan’s thing, usually. He’s a man who lived this long by being learned on how to keep to himself. Problem is though, winter’s coming on strong, and the chill’s been settling in his bones. Might be settling in his lungs next, and no Chantry types going to fix that.

Stefan’s here on investing against future sickness. Marge’s here on kids. She figures she owes a favor after her littlest pulled through morning paralysis and still has working legs. Luca still got both arms, Aldona’s just got shit luck and thus is a regular, Lucius ain’t shitting out blood anymore, and Lyle- well, Lyle hasn’t ever really used the good healer’s services, but Lyle’s always up for a spot of violence.

Footsteps start ringing in the distance. Luca got his attention then, probably stole something right off the man. Stefan bunkers down from his high ledge as do the rest, rocks at the ready. Only a spot more of waiting, and then Luca bolts past for all he’s worth. A breath after him goes the Templar, and Luca skitters to a stop at the dead end.

Luca, however, still got both use of his arms. Right climber he is and easily leaps and clambers up the wall before the Templar can draw his weapon. Lyle steps out from behind the door. Massive man, got himself a big club, just to guard the entrance.

Rocks always deal more damage than people think. They rain stones down, small ones, heavy ones. Marge’s a dead shot, throws one right at the Templar’s helmet, makes the person stagger, and it’s quickly finished after that.

Lyle darts in then with his knife to ensure the Templar stays dead. If he gets a bit enthusiastic, well, that’s Lyle for you.

Stefan feels almost disappointed. The whole thing was a bit underwhelming, to be honest.

Luca wrestles off the armor, though they did end up having to just saw the Templars head off as the helmet was too dented to remove. Stefan and Aldona split the money they loot off the corpse, and Lucius takes everything else. Lyle says just watching someone die was good enough for him, and Marge disappears off with the corpse. She has hungry kids to feed after all.

The good healer won’t hear about this, of course. Man doesn’t need any other stresses in his life. Least they could do is make sure one less Templar was sniffing around.


End file.
